


an astrologian has been known to fall ill on occasion

by WingsOfTime



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Banter, Caretaking, Fluff, Gen, Intimacy, Lots of face-touching, Shadowbringers Spoilers, Sickfic, a sprinkle of character and relationship study thrown in, thancred is loyal and a good friend, thancred may or may not have threatened a pixie offscreen, urianger has a case of physician heal thyself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 16:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21323368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Urianger gets sick, somehow. Thancred just so happens to be in the area.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt & Thancred Waters
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	an astrologian has been known to fall ill on occasion

**Author's Note:**

> not intended to be shippy, but can easily be read as such if you so wish  
there isn't really reference to my warrior of light beyond a couple of sentences, so don't worry about that. i just wanted to focus on their relationship without any outside variables :>

“Urianger, are you in?” Thancred calls out, ducking his head through the door.

He steps inside when he doesn’t receive a response, closing the door behind him and stomping his boots on the doormat. He looks around, his eyebrows slowly rising as he takes in the state of the cottage. The numerous and usually neat stacks of tomes are in disarray, many fallen and simply laying there on the ground, some even open. Paper and parchment lie scattered over and between them, rendering the floor a mess of inked vellum. Thancred lets out a low whistle, gaze roaming over the bookshelves and the upper floor. They seem to be in a better state, at least.

“If you’re not in, someone absolutely ransacked this place,” he continues in the same raised voice. “Well, by your standards at least. Oh, hullo.”

Urianger's star globe hangs on its rack by the door, next to his cloak. Thancred considers them, then unslings his gunblade and hooks it on a free peg, brushing aside his fleeting hesitation. Urianger's cottage is practically a second home of sorts to him, after all. He does not see why he shouldn’t make himself at home.

He is debating whether or not to take off his boots when he hears uneven footsteps, followed by a muted groan. Urianger slowly descends the staircase leading from the second floor, clutching at the railing with a white-knuckled grip. His face is drawn and weary, although the smile he offers Thancred holds a modicum of energy.

“Thancred, I did not expect thee to visit.” His deep voice is a touch scratchier than usual, and he quickly clears his throat. “Elsewise I would have… ah…” His eyes dart around the house. “… Prepared.”

“Had some trouble with the pixies, did we?” Thancred smiles wryly.

“… Aye.” Urianger's throat bobs as he lies. His gaze flicks to Thancred’s, then quickly away again.

Thancred decides not to call him on it. He glances at Urianger's slippers, considers the state of his own outerwear, and decides to begin unbuckling his greaves. It isn’t usually a quick process, so he makes to the couches to sit.

Urianger all but stumbles back into the stairwell. Thancred pauses, looking at him. “I’m just going to take off my armour, don’t worry,” he says, a little cautiously. “I don’t want to track mud onto your delightfully tasteful…” He glances at the ground. “…squares.”

“Ah! Quite an idea, Master Thancred. I shall fetch thee, ah, slippers. I have extra, for guests such as thyself.” Urianger retreats upstairs, haste fluttering his skirts.

Thancred hasn’t been _Master Thancred_ in years. He frowns a little as he plops down onto a plush green couch. Far _too_ plush and conspicuous in contrast to the rest of the furniture to suit Urianger's taste; it must have been a gift from some eager winged menace.

“I hope I haven’t offended you by dropping in,” he says, raising his voice to be heard once more and injecting some false cheer into it. He can just about make out Urianger's silhouette on the balcony above. “I just thought, well. I happen to be by myself for a few days, and you’re always by _yourself_, and we should take opportunities when they come to our doorstep, shouldn’t we? Boys’ night!”

He starts to tug on the straps under his thigh. Urianger's head emerges from the second floor.

“Thou art ill at ease because thou wert abandoned by thy companions,” he translates. Rather rudely, Thancred thinks.

He makes a face at nothing in particular. “Ryne is with Y'shtola for… about a week. For, um.” He starts on the next buckle. “Rest, shall we say. Ikael wanted to stay with them.”

“Ah.” Urianger's voice is thick understanding. Thancred is grateful—he really doesn’t want to have to elaborate. Urianger fades off as he continues, “Full well do I understand thy predicament. Considerest, upon the next occasion, to rest her here. I could be of aid, and thou couldst slacken and moan in second-hand discomfort whilst she freely mocks thee.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thancred mutters, jerking at the last strap on his left leg to loosen it. He tugs off the greave in full and stands it up on the ground next to him.

Urianger emerges, holding a pair of frumpy grey house slippers. For some reason, he hesitates to approach, instead lingering near the bottom of the stairwell.

“Art thou… staying at length?” His tone is carefully neutral, even bordering on nonchalant. Thancred allows him a second to collect himself as he wiggles his toes, then looks directly at him.

“I can go if you want me to, Urianger,” he says plainly. He ignores the flicker of hurt in his chest—it probably isn’t personal. “I don’t mean to intrude where and when I am not welcome.”

“Nay! Thou art always welcome.” Urianger's expression leaps in alarm. “I beseech thee, stay as long as thou wouldst. I may merely be… a flimsy substitute for a host, at least ‘til the morrow.”

Thancred frowns lightly. “If you would rather be alone once more, I will not take offense,” he reiterates. He really doesn’t want to be an unwanted house guest, let alone force Urianger to put on a front of a good host. His tacks on a small, reassuring smile, though it is not seen by Urianger's averted eyes, and rises, beginning to walk towards him. “Bad day?”

“I—prithee—remain thither and divest thyself of thine armour.” Urianger staggers back, holding an arm out as if to ward him off. “It—thou—wilt track mud all over my squares. Here,” And he all but throws the slippers in Thancred's direction. They don’t go very far.

Thancred cocks his head. “I can hop,” he says, demonstrating for a few paces. Urianger backs up the stairwell, nearly tripping on his skirts. What…? Is he trying to back away from _Thancred?_

“Alright.” Thancred frowns and strides towards him, ignoring his wide eyes and shaking head. “No. What is up with you? Is something the matter? Tell me the truth—I will know if you are lying.”

Urianger sags against the steps, finally giving up. “Therein lies the nature of my struggle,” he sighs, dropping his chin onto his chest. “Thou art far too observant for my duplicity. Nay,” he protests weakly as Thancred leans down to get a look at his face. “Stay back.”

Thancred ignores him, frowning as he looks him over. Urianger’s dusky skin is ashen, although his cheeks are unhealthily flushed, and there is a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead and dotted along his upper lip. His hair, even his usually well-groomed beard, is greasy, sweat staining the edges a dark grey.

“Good gods, man, you look like absolute shite,” Thancred mutters. “Are you _ill? _Look at me. Let me see your eyes.”

Urianger's pale eyes flick to his. Bloodshot and sunken, they paint the picture in incontrovertible fullness. “’Tis but a mild ailment,” he protests unconvincingly.

Thancred tugs off his glove and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Urianger sighs, but does not stop him.

“Bullshit.” Thancred drops his hand, a reflexive scowl tightening his voice. “You’re burning hotter than the Bowl of Embers. I didn’t know it was even possible for us to fall ill.”

It at least is a reassurance that Urianger isn’t running away from, or gods forbid, scared of, Thancred himself. He feels somewhat guilty for the relief he feels at that, although it is quickly chased by a mounting feeling of concern.

“’Twould not usually be.” Urianger licks dry lips. “But the barriers of worlds and reality shifteth to strange form with the Fae. ‘Tis also possible I have committed some grave misdeed, or been cursed.”

Now that he is no longer trying to feign normalcy, his voice has dropped to a low, scratchy wheeze. His eyelids droop, staying half-lidded and gazing off somewhere in the direction of Thancred's shoulder.

“How do you feel?” Thancred demands. Upon hearing how harsh he sounds, he softens his tone somewhat. “Be honest.”

Urianger's mouth opens. Closes. Then he gives a long exhale, shoulders slumping.

“’Tis as thou sayest,” he mutters. “Not… well.”

“Mm.” Thancred smiles grimly. “You look like you’re about to faint. Don’t tell me you used up all of your energy traipsing up and down the stairs to fetch me a pair of slippers?”

Urianger's silence is telling. Thancred tuts, disappointed but not surprised. “Very well then. Do you think you can stand and walk to your bed, or do you want me to help you?”

Pale golden eyes dart to his, wide with surprise. “I—pray, do not trouble thyself on my behalf,” Urianger all but stammers. “I am being… a grievously lamentable host. I can simply… remain here and…”

He trails off, breathing hard. His eyes slip shut. “Thou mayest… return on the morrow and I shall… prepare for thine arrival in a most courteous fashion,” he croaks.

“‘Thou art a fool, but a dear one,’” Thancred quotes with a half fond smile as he slips his arms underneath Urianger's armpits. He is met with no resistance, although he does get a surprised noise for his efforts. “Alright, I’m moving you to the couch while I take my armour off. Then we’ll see about getting you upstairs.”

“Thancred…” Urianger mumbles as he is half carried, half dragged into the foyer. He is nearly all dead weight, but he’s a skinny fellow, and Thancred hasn’t been kicking pebbles for five years. He deposits Urianger on the plush green cushions as carefully as he can.

“You stay there,” he says, half joking. Urianger gazes at him blankly, eyes fluttering.

“Thine assistance is… welcomed, but not needed,” he mumbles. Thancred ignores him, starting to take the rest of his armour off. He will be quicker and lighter without it. “Verily, thou needn’t trouble thyself…”

“Because clearly, you’re so good at taking care of yourself.” Thancred makes quick work of his remaining greave and glove, now that he isn’t idling to banter. He will have time for the rest later. “You have a severe fever, you can barely stand, and you’re dehydrated already, if I had to guess. Please, tell me that you’re fine.”

“A… physician should not be doted upon.” Urianger's words are starting to slur. “It… falleth upon him to…”

This time, he doesn’t continue, even when Thancred looks at him with a sardonically expectant expression. His eyes slip completely shut, and he goes silent.

Thancred quirks an eyebrow. “To heal himself?” he asks. He gets no reply.

~*~

Urianger's condition is worryingly deplorable while he is unconscious. Either it is worsening rapidly or he had simply been masking his symptoms well, but Thancred cannot quite rid himself of the nagging feeling that he should get a healer.

The problem is that he doesn’t want to leave Urianger alone while he goes off on a possibly pointless jaunt to fetch one. He is shivering violently in his sleep, yet his skin glistens with sweat, and when Thancred approaches even within a fulm, he can feel the heat radiating from him. What if a chittering winged terror flits in and decides it would be funny to make his condition even more severe? What if he simply collapses dead on the ground in a pile of black fabric and burnt elezen? Anything could happen.

Thancred finally decides to risk the trip, if only because Urianger's purely medicinal supplies are scarce, and he does not want to risk mixing random things with effects he cannot predict. He had never been very good at alchemy, and he most definitely has no wish to experiment with whatever ridiculous ingredients were picked in this cursed realm. That glowing blue mushroom on that shelf over there is just as likely to kill as it is to cure. So is everything else in Urianger's collection.

Thancred leaves him in his bed, with a damp cloth placed on his forehead and a bowl of stew he has thrown together on nightstand. It doesn’t taste exceptional, but it is food, and that is enough. More than enough—Thancred doubts Urianger has eaten for bells.

He leaves the cottage with worry hastening his footsteps.

~*~

Thancred returns not with a healer, but with a potion that he has been sworn—by a distressed, somewhat terrified pixie—will help. It had _better_ help, or someone’s poison flower field is going up in purple flames.

The house is in the same state he left it in; that is to say, somewhat cleaned up, but silent and inactive as a graveyard. He takes the stairs two at a time to get to Urianger's bedroom, irrationally paranoid that something terrible has happened in his absence.

When he opens in the door relief floods him, quickly followed by dismay. Urianger is still in bed, yes, but his covers are thrown, his dress is a mess, and he is trembling and tossing about, eyes rolled up in his head.

“Urianger, hey. Hey.” Thancred rushes to him, kneeling by his bedside. He clutches at his arms, steadying him. “Are you aware? Urianger?”

His words seem to register, thankfully, although only just. Urianger paws at him haphazardly, grabbing onto his collar tightly when it is all he can get a grip on.

“Who…” Urianger pulls him closer, eyes wild and semi-delirious. “… Moenbryda?”

Oh. With Thancred's hair colour and coat, he supposes it is not that much of a stretch. “Nay, my friend,” he says gently, uncurling Urianger's death grip on his collar before it chokes him. “Sadly, ‘tis only I. But I have something for you that will make you feel better.”

Urianger's fingers clench around his, and he stares blankly, apparently processing. Then he lets go, reaching up to touch Thancred's choker. His jaw.

“Thancred…” he mumbles, pressing narrow fingertips to his cheekbone.

Thancred smiles wryly. “I’m glad my defining characteristics are so palpable to you. Come on, can you sit up?”

Urianger's wandering hand has stuck itself in his hair. “’s so soft,” he mutters. He sounds surprised.

Thancred sighs lightly, though it is softened by a faint smile. “Very well then. If I can carry you here, I can sit you upright. Hold on.”

Urianger's dress is stuck to his skin, and rucked off one shoulder. Ideally Thancred would want to change him into something more comfortable, but he doesn’t want to attempt that without Urianger's full awareness, if not aid. He manages to haul him to a somewhat seated position, although it costs him a painful hair tug.

“Here, drink.” Thancred wastes no time in uncorking the potion bottle he has procured and pressing it to Urianger's lips. He helps him drink, making sure he downs the whole thing, then holds him still so it does not immediately come back up.

Urianger makes a face. “Tase’th like piss,” he mutters.

That makes Thancred stifle a smile. “All medicine does, I imagine. I would like to think that this is payback for bullying me at our victory party all those moons ago.”

Urianger begins to slump back down, and when Thancred deems enough time has passed, he helps him. Then he leaves his side to move around the bed, remaking it and fixing the blankets. The bowl of stew lies untouched, he notes. No matter; he can warm it up later.

“…ancred?”

“Right here.” Thancred smoothly returns to the bedside. “What do you need? Water?”

Urianger blinks at him hazily before nodding, and Thancred coaxes him through a few sips in the same fashion. Then he is easing him back into a sleeping position, trying his best to tuck him in without stifling him.

“Th’cred.”

“You’re finding fun and innovative new ways to pronounce my name today.” Thancred lifts Urianger’s head to rearrange a pillow before gently lowering it. Something, perhaps like sentiment, makes him brush aside a strand of wayward hair where it has stuck to heated skin. “What is it?”

Urianger's eyes drift shut. They stay like that for a misleading second before they snap open, fixing on Thancred as steadily as they can.

“Stay,” he mumbles.

This time, Thancred allows his smile. “I shall,” he promises in a quiet voice. “Now go to sleep. I’ll be here when you awake.”

Urianger closes his eyes, and finally slumps into unconsciousness.

~*~

Urianger stirs a few times over the next few bells to mumble nonsensically, or, once, ask for water before slipping back to sleep. The former of these happens worryingly often at first, but peters out in frequency as the day wags on. The latter proves to be a moment of clarity amidst fevered mutterings, and earns Thancred an exhausted but grateful smile.

Thancred himself flits about the house to clean up, or cook, or grab a book, and he returns to sit in Urianger’s room when he has no reason to be elsewhere. It is quite a quaint little place, all things considered (that is to say, its occasional Fae loiterers), and Thancred has always thought so. Ryne is more drawn to the concept of a hearth than he is, considering she grew up in a gilded jail cell, but the concept of _Urianger_ is familiar to him, and he finds he has come to think of the cottage as an extension of the man himself. Or even as a sort of temporary headquarters, away from the Crystarium, the Exarch, and the hubbub of people. It is not in the middle of a desert or by an adventurer-prone aetheryte, but Thancred would be lying if he said he did not think its purpose was somewhat reminiscent of the Waking Sands. Urianger had always preferred it there.

One good thing about dwelling in a previous book-hoarder’s house is that it is filled to the brim with all kinds of fact and fiction. There are days of potential entertainment sequestered quietly away, if one so chooses to look. Thancred spots a few of Ryne’s favourite tomes redistributed to the lower shelves when he drifts among them, and it makes him smile. Sentimental fools, the lot of them.

He ends up plucking a book off of Urianger’s desk—a thick red volume about invisibility and shadow magic. Not something he can make use of now, of course, but he is interested by the concept. Perhaps he can even suggest it to Ryne, if it suits her.

He is padding up the staircase, book tucked properly under his arm (Urianger had once gotten tipsy and lectured him for an entire evening about it being spine _up_, not _down_, and he would make damn sure Thancred knew it) when the bedroom door bangs open. Thancred pauses, halfway up the stairs. Urianger stumbles through, clutching at the doorframe as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. It probably is, knowing the great lovely fool.

His eyes widen upon spotting him. “Thancred,” he gasps raggedly. “I… I thought thou hadst…”

“Still alive,” Thancred greets, jogging up the remainder of the steps. He frowns lightly. “You shouldn’t be up—you can barely even stand.”

Urianger sags, but his grip on the doorframe tightens. “Nay, not… dead. I…” He swallows. The dry click of his throat is audible. “I thought thou hadst left.”

Thancred blinks at him. “Oh.”

“I… awoke in fullness sans thy presence.” Urianger's legs are shaking. Thancred sets his book on the railing and hurries to steady him. He takes his weight easily, draping one arm around his shoulder and looping his own around a narrow waist. Too narrow—he still hasn’t eaten yet. “And I thought that thou… that thou wert surely gone. Or that I had… imagined thee and thy care. I…”

He exhales shakily, no more strength in his voice than there is in his body. “Easy, easy,” says Thancred, slowly walking him back into the bedroom. _Thee and thy care_ sticks in his mind, making his movements even gentler than they would have been as he eases Urianger into a sitting position on the bed.

Great lovely fool.

“I’m right here,” Thancred says, kneeling down in front of him. He keeps one hand on Urianger's elbow, in case he decides to make like a domino tile and tip to the side. “Come now, I wouldn’t simply leave you alone to suffer, would I? You can barely make it out of bed, as you have just proven.”

Urianger only stares at him blankly in lieu of a response. After a beat he reaches out, as if to feel that Thancred's presence is solid. Trembling fingers touch his cheek, which is about level with Urianger's legs. Then, in a hoarse baritone, “Thancred…”

“That’s me.” Thancred smiles faux-brightly. Urianger's hand immediately seeks its edge, tracing it even when it fades into neutrality. A fingertip rests where Thancred knows he has a dimple if he emotes enough for it. He usually doesn’t.

Urianger's hand drops, and his eyes close. “Thou…” he mutters.

It is the beginning of a sentence heavy with sentiment, or gritty sincerity, or something that Thancred does not know if he can endure at this moment. So he cuts Urianger off, for better or for worse, taking both his hands and squeezing them until those pale gold eyes blink open, squinting at their lost train of thought.

“Are you awake enough to take a bath?” Thancred asks, easily shifting the topic. “A cool one, mind you. I’ll put your dress to wash if you are.”

Urianger blinks at him again, slow and jittery. “… Aye, I can bathe,” he replies. “Thancred, I… wish to thank thee. Ne’er would I have expected…” He swallows. “The extent of thy care.”

So Thancred cannot escape fully unscathed. “Think nothing of it,” he says with a small quirk of his lips. There it is again. _Thy care. _“’Tis the least I can do, honestly. I am unfortunately no healer.”

Urianger would probably be better off if he were. He swallows that bitter thought, circling an arm around his back to help him stand once more.

Sharp fingers press against his breastbone. “Cease thy self-critique.” Urianger's tone rises enough to be surprisingly strong. “Thou art more than capable of excelling in whichever task thy gifted mind dwelleth on.”

Thancred pulls up short, nonplussed for a passing moment. “I didn’t even say…”

“Thou wert thinking it.” That voice brokers no room for argument.

Thancred sighs, looking away. “Shouldn’t you be saving that energy for something useful?” he mutters, guiding Urianger to the door. “Like telling whatever Fae did this to you to fucketh off, or, I don’t know, anything that isn’t poking and prodding at me. It isn’t as if you’re going to get under my skin with a few compliments and some stern words.”

“Yet the rose that bloometh in thy cheeks declareth otherwise.” The response is smug. At least, as much as it can be when delivered by a man who is stumbling too much to bear his own weight. “And that is not a word.”

“I’m sorry, which one? I said a lot of them.”

“Mm.” There is a smile in Urianger's voice, which is a good sign. If he is well enough to banter, he is hopefully on the mend. “Ah… ‘Fae.’ Thou art mispronouncing it.”

“I _am_? This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Truly. I never told thee in fear of causing injury to thy delicate constitution.”

“Oh, you needn’t be so kind.” They have reached the bathing room. Thancred steadies Urianger against the wall, making sure he isn’t at risk of falling over before he starts the bath. “Alright, this is going to be cold, so don’t be surprised if you feel like you’re freezing to death. Anyways, my constitution is far from delicate, I’ll have you know. Who is it that takes all the hits for you lot, again?”

Urianger smiles at him thinly, but amicably. “And who was it whom I did whisk from Fate’s final door on one most memorable occasion?”

“More than once.” Thancred looks up into his eyes, sober once more. “And I will forever be indebted to you, Urianger. Until I step through that door for good.”

Urianger's gauzy gaze folds, then lifts as his smile turns affectionate and aged. “Thou wilt not,” he says.

He reaches forwards to brush his knuckles alongside Thancred's face. They are cooler than the rest of him, hard and yet surprisingly gentle. Or maybe that is just what Thancred has come to expect from his makeshift family. A mirror of himself.

“I admire your optimism, but I think it is a bit of a stretch to say I am immortal.” He lifts one side of his mouth, and nothing else.

Urianger's head tilts, ever-so-slightly. “Thou wilt not remain indebted to me,” he rephrases. His hand turns and cups Thancred's jaw, thumb and forefinger fanning over his face. “Thou _art_ not. I shall make this clear, dearest Thancred, lest thou wilt lie to thyself upon reflection: I do what I must not out of debt or to curry favour, but for thee. And so it shall remain evermore.”

Thancred swallows. Urianger's forefinger taps against his cheek once before his hand withdraws, and with it the warmth of his touch.

“Begone, now. I must bathe.” His eyes crease as he smiles. “I will not deal with thy lechery at this year of our companionship.”

Thancred breathes out a laugh, but pushes off from the wall, reaching over to turn the bath off before backing out the door with a two-fingered salute. He shuts it and turns on his heel, striding back towards the bedroom.

He hopes Urianger has pants somewhere.

~*~

“I made a lot of stew,” Thancred calls when he hears soft footfalls. “It’s your fault for not eating it, really. I put it back in the pot to warm it up, and then I needed more water… anyways. Now there’s plenty.”

“Truly, it doth smell divine.” Urianger's voice is somewhat stronger than before, although that could just be wishful thinking on Thancred's part. He glances over his shoulder to see Urianger clad in the soft tan tunic and brais he had laid out for him. It is odd to see him so underdressed, although the sight is steeped in an ironic familiarity. It is Urianger, after all, who is nothing but familiar, and Thancred is in his _house_.

“You can’t even smell it.” Thancred quirks a smile at him before turning back to the stew. “But I am glad to see you can more or less stand now. Did the exorbitantly long bath help? You were in there for practically an entire bell. I had half a thought to check if you had drowned.”

“’Twas of aid, aye, though the potion was more so.” The sound of Urianger pulling back a chair at the table and slumping into it. Muttered in a lower tone: “Ye gods, I am starved.”

Thancred ladles a generous helping of stew into a large bowl he had fished out specifically to contain as much as he had thought a grown Elezen could eat. Not eaten in bells his arse. No sickly friend is staying in that state for long under Thancred's watch.

“Luckily for you, I am here to provide.” He wraps the bowl in a dry washcloth before grabbing a spoon and carrying the whole thing over to Urianger. “There you go. You are not leaving this table until you finish every last drop, do you hear?”

“Aye.” Urianger stares at the stew. He sniffs instinctively, although Thancred doubts he can smell much from it. “I thank thee. Thou truly didst make… a lot.”

“And there’s enough for seconds! Isn’t that grand?” Thancred dumps some stew into a smaller bowl and plunks it and himself down across the table. “Now dig in.”

He smiles threateningly. The _or else_ goes unsaid.

They eat at a leisurely pace. Thancred fills in the gaps of silence by taking on Urianger's mantle of storyteller and chattering about recent insignificant events. Urianger learns about their hunt for the Cardinal Virtues (and offers advice, and gets shushed and finger-pointed at until he goes back to eating), Thancred's attempts to learn Ikael’s language by annoying him enough to be cursed at in it, and Ryne’s burgeoning interest in learning magicks. Also her burgeoning interest in other, more interpersonal endeavors, which Thancred has done his best to… help with.

“Thou art as a father most severe refusing to give his daughter’s hand,” Urianger rumbles.

Thancred huffs. “Eat your stew.”

“I have all but finished.” Urianger tips his bowl to show that it is indeed nearly empty. “Prithee, thou must elaborate on the young master she hath met in her arithmetic lessons. By the name of Ivir, thou sayest…?”

“There’s a popoto chunk left in there. I’m not taking your bait until the food is all gone.”

Urianger spoons the popoto and makes a great dramatic show of chewing and swallowing it. Thancred stares him down until his bowl has absolutely nothing left in it, not even a single drop.

Urianger looks at him expectedly. Thancred smiles, then gets up and takes their dishes to the sink.

“It’s naptime now, I think,” he says as he runs the water. “Would you look at that! The sun’s going down.”

He cannot see Urianger roll his eyes, but he swears he can hear it in his voice. “Thou art not unlike the elder Master Leveilleur,” he says. “But very well, flee from the subject as thou wilt.”

“Until Ryne runs away from me to go off frolicking on another continent, I’ll take that with a grain of salt.” Thancred realizes what he says as he says it, and grimaces. “No. Shut up. Don’t say anything to that.”

He shuts the tap off and returns to a smarmily smiling Urianger, offering his arm. It is accepted, and he is gratified to note that Urianger stands a lot steadier than he had earlier in the day.

“Wilt thou…” He speaks up as they trudge up the stairs, his voice a low rumble. “Take thy rest as well? Thou hast all but expended thyself in caring for me as thou hast.”

“Are you asking me to cuddle with you?” Thancred jokes. Burnished gold eyes flick down to look at him.

“If thou so desirest,” Urianger answers plainly.

Thancred glances away to help him through the doorway, although his aid is not entirely necessary at this point. “Well, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he says after a pause. A little louder, “As long as you don’t hog the bedsheets, alright?”

Urianger smiles at him, affable and genuine. “I shall mind thy diminutive stature,” he reassures. Thancred snorts. “What is it that thou sayest often? ‘Come now.’ And shuck thy slippers, I bid thee. Thou wilt sully the sheets.”

~*~


End file.
